Right
by patsan
Summary: "Matthew punched his pillow to give it a more comfortable shape, and then dug his head into it, closing his eyes and willing for sleep to come and take away the bitterness of this evening, of this whole day. But one minute passed, then another, and he sighed in frustration, just as alert as he'd been when he first got into bed." A 3x03 missing moment.


_Hello, my dear readers, and welcome to a story born from a random and totally unrelated Tumblr post and a sudden inspiration. _

_It is a new missing moment, set in 3x03, in the midst of that twisted, horrible affair concerning the Reginald Swire's money. The way it was solved never really satisfied me, and even without changing that, for a long time I wanted to explore some of the feelings behind the characters' actions, and Matthew's in particular, whose reasons are somehow easier to dismiss (in a "get over yourself and your sense that you're above the others" way), but whose point I could see as clearly as Mary's._

_Mary is the character I relate the most with, and so this was a bit of a challenge, one I hope I have not failed._

_You'll be the judges of that :)  
_

_This is set the night before Edith's wedding, when Mary and Matthew fight over Swire's letter and Matthew even accuses her of having forged the letter herself. Things seem to have calmed down between them the morning after, even before Mary revealed what she'd learned from Daisy (that Lavinia had indeed sent a letter to his father, and so he knew the wedding would not happen), and this story tries to bridge that gap._

_Many thanks to **Darkeblueyank** for the polish and to **Orangeshipper** for her read through. _

_That said, enjoy!_

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**Right**

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Matthew had to keep himself from sighing out loud.

He let go of the breath he's been holding, and pressed his lips into a thin line.

He punched his pillow to give it a more comfortable shape, and then dug his head into it, closing his eyes and willing for sleep to come and take away the bitterness of this evening, of this whole day.

But one minute passed, then another, and he sighed in frustration, just as alert as he'd been when he first got into bed.

He let out a slow breath, opening his eyes, fixing his gaze on the wall in front of him.

It was no use.

He could feel Mary lying behind him and even though her breath was even he knew she was awake.

He turned his head, looking over his shoulder toward her part of the bed, not really seeing her, but knowing how troubled she must be feeling, how aggravated by this whole situation.

He turned again and rested his head on the pillow, one hand finding its place under it.

It was so unfair.

He'd told Tom the night before their wedding how impossible this thing might become, but his future brother-in-love had dismissed his worries back then.

_"__You are made for each other,"_ he's said, _"I've known it for as long as I've been at the house."_

A small smile curved Matthew's lips at the memory, for he'd known then just as he knew now that Tom had been right.

Mary had been his heart and soul for as long as he'd known her.

She was then, and she was now, and yet… and yet he could not bring himself to do the only thing she now wanted him to do.

He'd do anything to her, he was sure of it.

He would do anything to protect her, to make her happy.

_Anything._

Anything that was in his power, but not-

He could not do _this_.

Matthew closed his eyes, squeezed them shut against the tightness he felt in his chest.

He could not take the bloody money any more than he could kill in cold blood, he thought, and a shiver ran up his spine as he reminded himself that he _had_ killed in cold blood, he had done his bloody part for king and country and…

Those _faces_, those _screams_ would haunt him till the end of his days…

They had tortured him during the endless hours he'd spent in his bunk, season after season, sleepless night after sleepless night.

They'd followed him home, first in a bed at the local hospital, then in the small but comfortable room set for him at the abbey, and later, still, when he'd been back in his bedroom at Crawley House, the mattress now too soft to bring any amount of relief against his darkest memories, against the broken pieces of his life.

Lifeless.

That's how he'd felt for so long.

Worthless.

That's how he counted himself for so many weeks after his injury.

_"__All I'll admit is that you're here and you've survived the war. That's enough for now," _she'd said, her eyes never leaving his.

Mary, _his_ darling Mary, who had not been his back then, and yet had inhabited all his dreams, visions of her keeping him on this side of the thin line separating consciousness from nothingness.

_Mary_, who loved him, had loved him for so long.

_"__I thought you were lost to me,"_ she'd confessed once, in those suspended moments just before down, their bodies still intimately entwined together in a foreign bed that had felt like home. _"But I never stopped, I-"_

He'd silenced her with a fierce kiss, because he knew, because he _understood_, he understood so well.

Matthew sighed silently, finally opening his eyes in the dim light of the lamps.

Sometimes he needed it during the night, the light.

He'd been in the darkness for so long, and sometime it felt threatening again, even with his wife's body draped against his own, even with her hands keeping him in place, anchoring him to reality with her tender touch, her soothing whispers, her loving kisses.

_Mary._

He loved her, and he needed her.

He-

He sighed, growing more agitated the more he laid still.

How could he do as she wanted?

How could he even bear the thought of-

But no, it didn't matter, he decided.

They would work this out.

They would find a way, somehow.

They _would_.

For the alternative was just impossible.

_Mary_, he thought, resolve set in his bones.

He would find a way.

He took a deep breath, and turned.

Only… only he was so focused on the single notion of just turning around and reaching for her that he failed to hear the whish of the sheets and covers behind him.

He didn't notice that the mattress was already bouncing…

He didn't see… till it was too late.

His elbow connected painfully with the side of Mary's head.

"Mary!" Matthew exclaimed in worry just as a little cry escaped her lips.

He immediately sat up in bed, his fingers going to bruised part, but not daring to touch it though, for fear of causing even more damage than he already had.

When Mary too sat up, Matthew settled for touching her cheek, and his arm slid awkwardly around her, half hugging, half supporting her.

"Darling, are you alright?"

Her eyes opened slowly, and she looked at him accusingly, her fingers brushing gingerly over the offended part.

"First you accuse me of forging a letter, then you decide to hit me," she said in a low voice.

Matthew's mouth feel open.

Oh God, could he really fight the truth in her words?

A strangled sound came out his throat and he must have been a sight for Mary watched him a moment longer, and then the corners of her mouth twitched up, a soft laugh finally bubbling from her lips.

Matthew let out a sigh of relief.

He smiled, just a little, and leaned over to kiss her forehead, her cheeks, then daring a soft kiss on her lips.

"I'm sorry," he said, his lips pressed together in apology as he watched her closely.

His fingers went to her chin and he turned her head delicately to inspect the damage himself, but she batted his hand away.

His arm fell down, his fingers curling in defeat over his lap.

"I'm alright," she replied.

"Are you sure? I can call someone. Anna?" he asked, wondering at the same time if he remembered correctly the route to the female staff's rooms and if it was acceptable for him to even venture up there.

He frowned, a little tense at the prospect, but surely they wouldn't mind once he explained that Mary needed help. Especially not Anna. He could not imagine Anna being upset if-

His thoughts were stopped suddenly by Mary's hand squeezing his arm.

He looked up at her.

"You didn't cause any damage, darling," she assured him with a small smile. "But next time you decide to turn suddenly in bed, be more careful," she said, eyebrows raising up to match the teasing quality of her tone.

"How was I to know you were turning at the same time?" he huffed, but there wasn't any real accusation behind his voice, only a slight surprise as he realised then and there that that was the reason she had been so close.

She'd turned at the same time he had.

She was reaching for him like he was for her.

His smile widened at the realisation and he took her hand in his.

"Aren't we the pair?" Mary said softly, tilting her head on one side. "Going angry to bed and then, when we decide to make peace, ending up wrestling and hurting each other?"

Her tone was light, but Matthew sobered all the same.

He squeezed her fingers.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he said again, and he meant more than just the unfortunate incident that had just happened.

Mary watched him quietly for a moment, understanding him so well, he knew, before lowering her eyes on their linked hands.

"I know you are," she said, and then fell silent, her mouth opening to say more, but closing again as she changed her mind.

Matthew slid closer to her on the bed, but didn't reach for more of her touch, no matter how much he needed it, craved it even.

Guilt again clouded his mind as he thought of the pain he was still causing his darling wife, all his family really, but the crux of the matter didn't change, did it?

How could he do what she wanted?

How could he, in good consciousness, accept an inheritance which had been bestowed upon him for a misconception of his character?

He couldn't, could he?

He just-

His eyes fell on their joined hands, and his throat felt tight, so he swallowed, again and again, but it didn't help in calming him down.

Instead, he felt tears pricking his eyes and so he closed them, his throat working hopelessly around the lump he felt as desperation once again pressed on his heart.

Could he do it?

He wondered.

No one would ever object if he did, and to the whole world he would do just what was expected from him.

What others would think easy, and convenient, and even honourable think to do.

But he would know better, wouldn't he?

He would know the truth, and he would have to face it every day, every single day for the rest of his life.

And could he do that?

Could he watch himself in the mirror and be at peace with the guilt? Could he go on and dine in splendour in the house, and host parties and watch his children grow showered with gifts and toys and know that it all was because of money he had no right to spent, to take, to consider his?

A low buzz started in Matthew's ears, and he felt his blood rush within his veins as his agitation grew.

He was barely aware of Mary's hand in his now, but then he noticed with extraordinaire clarity when she took her hand away, her fingers sliding against his skin and then away.

Suddenly he was alone.

His hands were empty and he retreated in himself.

He kept his eyes closed and he didn't move, because he could not.

Darkness was surrounding him once again. It was reached for him from every side and…

_Murdered,_ it said, in a low, hard hiss near his ear.

_You're nothing but a murderer._

_"__I'm sorry!"_ he whimpered in his mind, but it hardly mattered, his plead, now, did it?

_You killed them. You killed them all…_

_"__I-"_

_You killed _her_. It was your fault. You betrayed her and she died._

"Matthew…"

_She died because of you._

Matthew shook his head, but what for? It was the truth.

"Darling…"

_It was your fault._

It had been his fault.

"Matthew!"

Someone shook him by the shoulders, and he could hear a voice calling him, but-

"Matthew, look at me," the voice commanded, and slowly, finally Matthew opened his eyes and saw _her_.

She gave him a tearful smile, and her hands cradled his cheeks, pushed his hair aside and away from his face.

Matthew looked at her.

He looked at her, and he saw her, and when her fingertips brushed his tears away, when she kissed his wet skin in small, featherlike kisses that were like spots of warmth and hope on his cold skin, he felt his heart burst with love for her, and he was thankful, so thankful that she was in his life as she was now, that no matter the past she was here now, with him.

Mary kissed his lips, lingering against them, and Matthew's eyes fell shut, but it was only because of her now and nothing else, the darkness within him shying away from the light of her presence.

She drew back and they looked at each other for a long, long moment.

"Do you see me?" she asked, her eyes shiny in the pale light of the room.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, I do."

She smiled, and kissed him again, hard, arms hugging him to her, protecting him even from himself it seemed sometimes.

Loving him.

"It wasn't your fault," she said in a low but sure voice when she leaned back, her hand sliding down his chest, stopping over his heart. "What can I do to make you see?"

"Mary…"

"It was not. Reginald Swire knew, he knew that _your heart_," and her hand pressed a little more again his flesh, "that your heart is in the right place, darling. Lavinia knew it too, and their consideration for you wasn't lessened by their knowing that you-"

"That I was a traitor?" he asked. There wasn't any energy behind it, but his eyes fell over her shoulder, and sadness curved his lips in a pitiful smile. "They knew that even though my heart was promised to her, I only truly loved another woman."

He untangled himself from Mary, turned his back on her, but he couldn't bring himself to go too far, to break every contact, and when her hand closed around his fingers he accepted her support, held on to it for dear life.

"I was never faithful to her, not in the way that matters," he continued, his voice small and a little lost now. "It was always you. It has always been you".

He swallowed, and breathed slowly, watching without seeing the rumpled covers in front of him.

Some moments passed, silence around them, and then the mattress dipped behind him as she moved closer.

Her hand reached for his face, and he followed her gentle pull, turning to face her again.

Swiftly, her arms circled him, and he could only hug her in return, burying his face in the curve of her neck.

His mind was spinning, and he couldn't think anymore, he couldn't-

Tears formed again in his eyes, and this time he let them fall, squeezing his eyes shut and hugging Mary more tightly against his body.

"It's alright," she murmured in his hair, pressing a soft kiss there. "Everything is going to be alright."

His arm slid down to her waist, and he leaned heavily against her, burrowing in her warmth as months, years, what felt like a lifetime of guilt, and regrets, and longing, and anguish poured out of him.

"I'm sorry," he told her, and he did not know what he was apologizing for, because there were so many things he was so sorry about, so many things.

"Shhh," she muttered, holding him close, her fingers caressing his hair, his face, his shoulders, his back.

Never for a moment she let go, but she held him securely, keeping him grounded to this very moment, to the truth of them together, to the miracle that was their marriage.

_To her._

_Mary_.

His darling, darling Mary.

Matthew took deep breaths as he slowly calmed down.

Eventually, he opened his eyes and looked at her, a slow blush creeping up his neck at such an open display of weakness, but he couldn't mind.

She'd seen him at his worst, and she had never given up on him.

Mary smiled tenderly at him, arms still around him.

"It wasn't your fault," she said again, no room for objections, and he wanted to shook his head, but for some reason he couldn't, and that bitterness he'd felt for so long was a pale memory now, here, in her arms.

He smiled.

"Mary…" he started, and then stopped, for there was nothing he could say, not when she looked at him how she was doing now.

She wouldn't let him anyway.

"Did you regret it?" she asked.

He didn't understanding.

"Did you regret loving me?" she asked again, her brow furrowing.

His eyes widened, but he recovered soon.

"No," he said shaking his head and there was no uncertainty in his voice. "I made many mistakes in my life, Mary, but loving you was never one of them."

She nodded and leaned in, kissing him softly on the lips.

When she drew back her eyes were wide and warm.

He kissed her then, lingering against her lips for a long moment.

"It's the only things that feels right," she muttered, just a hint of question, in the sliver of space separating their faces when he moved away, barely, his forehead resting against hers.

He hummed and lifted his head to meet her eyes.

He smiled, and thought, clearly, that it didn't matter the predicament they were currently in, nor the tortuous path they had taken to be where they were now, or how much pain it had caused to them both and to others—a sweet smile and clear eyes flashed in his mind, but they weren't accusing now, they didn't made his heart ache and clench.

Regardless of their past they were here now, in each other's arms, Mary and Matthew, and this was the right place to be.

He nodded to himself, and cleared his throat.

"Have you kept the letter? Swire's letter, that is," he asked, wiping away the remainder of his tears and a small part of the past with them.

She nodded, eyeing him curiously.

He smiled, his hand pressing against her side to remind himself of what was important.

"I would like for you to read it to me again, darling. I-" he stopped, and cleared his throat. He lowered his eyes, but her fingers touched his skin and he looked up, smiled at her. She was his strength. "I'm not sure I can believe it quite yet, but… all the same, I'd like to hear it again, if you don't mind."

Mary watched him seriously for a long moment, searching his eyes.

He held her gaze her unashamed, letting her see… _him_, all of him, good and bad.

And she _saw_, he knew she did.

She understood. She understood everything.

She kept watching him with a serious expression on her darling face, but it was a different kind of seriousness now, one he'd come to know and cherish and hope for with bated breath in the short months since their marriage—even before that, truly.

When she kissed him, he welcomed the urgent stroke of her lips on his own, and his arms slid easily around her, bringing her more securely against him.

"Do you need to hear it now?" she enquired backing away just a little, her breath against his mouth.

He looked at her without moving, her dark eyes the only thing that mattered.

"Not right now, no," he breathed as his fingers moved and found the curve of her hip.

A sigh left Mary's lips as she moved against him, and over him, over his lap, her hands holding his face in both her palms.

"Good," she whispered, then whimpered as his fingers slid down her thighs, smoothing the silk of her nightgown and dipping under its hem, finding her soft, warm skin.

She leaned heavily against him, capturing his mouth in a fervent kiss.

He groaned, and his hands kept moving under her nightgown, stroking, squeezing, teasing her flesh as she pushed him down with a sudden push.

Mary's legs settled on either side of his body and she leaned over him, kissed him again, angrily and soon sighs and moans filled the still air of their bedroom as they lost themselves in each other, in everything that they were, in the beauty of loving each other as they did.

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**The End**

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_And there you have it._

_So, what do you think? :)_


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